The Tell Tale Signs
by Alithe Cambre
Summary: John and Sherlock have a new case: an Edgar Allen Poe copycat. But when John becomes the victim, how does Sherlock react. This my just be the catlyst their relationship needed. Johnlock, M/M slash. Don't like? Don't read. Three Shot. Co-Authored with RK who does not have an account.
1. Chapter 1

Story: The Tell Tale Signs

Rating: M for explicit language and mature sex scenes (graphic)

Pairings: Johnlock, brief John/Moriarty/Sherlock threesome scene

Author: Alithe Serafina Cambre and RJK

Intended Length: 1-3 chapters, 5,000- 10,000 words

Chapter One

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SHERLOCK STOOD in the center of the room, his overcoat fluttering around his calves in the slight breeze of the broken window. John held back a sigh; it was hardly the time to be admiring the statuesque, regal form of his flat mate… but sometimes he couldn't help but notice these things. Lestrade had called them in almost two hours ago and they had arrived promptly at the crime scene. John winced at the gunfire in the distant night. It wasn't the best part of London.

Sherlock had taken one look at the body and deduced that she had been strangled to death by a large man as indicated by the distance of the bruising on her neck and the size of the footprint in the drywall dust. He had known that the woman had been a mother of two and an avid reader, lover of all the classic novels and former professor of Great English Literature. But then they'd found the other body. A small blood spatter in the hearth had prompted Sherlock to look up the chimney…

An hour and a half later, they'd finally dislodged the body of a teenage girl. It was gruesome and vomit-inducing but Sherlock had merely stared. And he was still staring, ten minutes later. John and Lestrade recognized the trance for what it was- not shock or horror, but a kip off to his mind palace. He had recognized something about the murder and was trying to remember it.

Suddenly, Sherlock's gaze jerked up to John's face, a delighted smile upon his face. "Edgar Allen Poe!" He proclaimed to his blogger.

"What?" Lestrade asked, half exasperated- half curious.

"Uncultured idiots," Sherlock rolled his eyes. John's brow was furrowed in thought.

"Wait, he's the bloke who wrote about murders, right? So you're saying that this murder is a copycat of one of Poe's stories?" Sherlock beamed at him in pride.

"Yes exactly, John! Thank god one of you people has some sense! _Murders in the Rue Morgue_." He looked around the bodies and then at the window. On the shattered glass there were several strands of long, orange hair. "In the story a mother and her daughter were killed by an orangutan."

"Spectacular. So we've most likely got ourselves a serial killer." Lestrade sighed.

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful John?" John smiled softly at his flat mate.

"For you, Sherlock. Wonderful for you. The victims, on the other hand…" he shook his head.

"Well, yes. That is a downside. But this is good!" He cackled a bit manically and Anderson (who had just entered the room from the adjoined bedroom) gave him a look of disgust.

"The room shows no signs of struggle and besides the window there is no sign of forced entry. The glass is shattered outwards so it was a point of exit rather than entry. This means that the killer was someone she knew. Perhaps her other kid?"

"As always Anderson, your powers of deduction are severely lacking. She did know the killer and he was let in but it wasn't her son. The young man is actually living in America, currently in training for the Navy. He's lived there for nearly ten years, he was sent off to a posh New England boarding school when his father died ten years ago. His sister was too young to go so she stayed here with her mum. Her killer is an ex-student, probably self-admitted to psychiatric care at least once. Tall, heavyset, ex-rugby player and judging by the weight distribution in these footprints he has a limp. Torn ligament and shattered patella. Not very bright and new to murder, he left footprints, you see. Most likely, he blames his professors for his failures in University. Easy enough to catch but we'll need to narrow the suspects down quite a bit first…" he began muttering to himself and walked over to a table where Lestrade had set up his laptop.

The Consulting Detective hacked the DI's pass code in under a minute and immediately began hacking into a college webpage in order to acquire a list of students who had taken the dead woman's class. John yawned and looked at his watch. 11:15 a.m. He sighed.

"I'm going to kip out for a cuppa somewhere. Meet you back at the flat." Sherlock looked up briefly.

"Get some sleep, John. You haven't been doing much of that lately and you look like hell." John was taken aback at first but smiled a little. Sherlock always noticed.

"Will do, boss." He buttoned his jacket and stepped into the chilly night, walking three blocks before hailing a taxi. He got in the back of the black cab and smiled at the woman driving through the mirror. "Sandwich shop on Baker Street, please." As the car pulled away from the curb and drove along, the ex-army doctor ignored the slight rumble of his stomach. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, he realized. He hoped he wasn't becoming like Sherlock.

THE CAB PULLED over next to 221B and John hopped out. He looked at the 24hr sandwich shop and then at his flat and back again, debating. Deciding that Mrs. Hudson was asleep and he was too tired to make his own food, he walked into the quiet shop. Surprisingly, there were about six other people there. John walked up to the counter. A gum-chewing teenage girl stood behind it with her music blasting through her headphones. She pulled them off when he approached and smiled at him insincerely.

"What can I get for you?" her American accent was tick ad decidedly southern.

"One decaf, black, and peach scone please." He needed fast calories and sleep, he decided.

"That'll be six and a half quid." John forked over the money and sat down on one of the stools by the counter. Before his food was done, a young burly man tapped him on his shoulder with a hopeful grin on his strangely boyish face.

"You're John Watson, aren't you?" when John nodded. Bemused, the man's face lit up with excitement.

"Brilliant! I read about you in the papers and of course in your blog! Is Sherlock here?" John was slightly stunned by this reaction but recovered well, plastering a slightly uncomfortable smile on his face.

"No, he's at a crime scene. Some poor woman killed by a former student, he says."

"Ooo, that's awful!" the young waitress placed John's order in front of him and he promptly devoured it, using it partially as an excuse not to talk. He was too tire to deal with "fans". Much to his annoyance, te kid kept babbling on about his blog and how much he admired Sherlock, how he himself was training to be a detective and minoring in Great English Literature.

As soon as John reached the door of his flat, the prattling student right behind him, things changed. The formerly enthused youngster was now grinning like a maniac, and not in the happy way. "Well, this has been lovely John." The ex-soldier's spine tingled and he whipped around to face the youth fully. "Too bad I have to kidnap you now."

"Wha-" and then everything went black.

SHERLOCK WAS STILL at the crime scene when his phone buzzed.

~John is about to become my _Tell Tale Heart_ victim. Catch me if you can- UNKNOWN #~

"LESTRADE!"


	2. Chapter 2

Story: The Tell Tale Signs

Rating: M for explicit language and mature sex scenes (graphic)

Pairings: Johnlock, brief John/Moriarty/Sherlock threesome scene

Author: Alithe Serafina Cambre and RJK

Intended Length: 1-3 chapters, 5,000- 10,000 words

Chapter Two

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LAWRENCE KENNSINGTON III WAS pacing around the unconscious form that was hanging in the middle of the room. He ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, muttering to himself. John Watson woke up slowly, prying his eyes open and ignoring the throbbing pain in the back of his neck and arms/shoulders. He immediately noticed that his wrists were bound with a thick rope and slung over a meat hook in the ceiling. In the corner of the warehouse room, he saw that there was a movie-esque set up of an old man's room. A ventilator and IV drip were there, as well as an oxygen cart. A cane was propped against the wall and a few floorboards were torn up.

John strained his ears and closed his eyes, faking unconsciousness as he tried to decipher the mutters of the mad-man in front of him. "But why? He's innocent, I can't kill him… he's certainly not innocent… soldiers are murderers… Smile mother, are you proud?"

Suddenly the kidnapper stopped pacing and his demeanor changed faster than a blink. A deep, guttural voice that John recognized poured out into the mutterings. "The first incision has to be precise, over the heart. Crack the ribs, remove the heart. Cut around the eye or gouge it out? Hmm… blood or no blood? Kill him first?" he muttered and laughed and John found it harder and harder to keep down his growing horror and fake unawareness. Thankfully the personality switched again and the voice once more sounded panicked and boyish.

"Oh god, my mum! Did I kill her? No, no, killed that bitch teacher… She failed me! Dyslexia! Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god! What am I doing? Text Sherlock!" he was silent for a beat and John cracked his eyes open to see that his captor had taken out his phone and was furiously typing away. The phone clicked shut and John closed his eyes once more. "Sister, brother, bile them cabbage down, down to the river to pray… Leave now and get help, Larry. Larry the third, can't even be first in names…" the voice changed once more.

"It's time to wake the soldier. Conscious for this… hurt more…" The man seemed to be talking directly to himself with the last comment rather than rambling to thin air like he had been. John tried not to tense as he heard the approaching footsteps. A cold bucket of water was thrown at him and he sputtered and gasped for air, his eyes open now. His kidnapper met his surprised gaze with a sinister looking smile paired with a glint of insanity in his blue eyes.

"Who- What?" John sputtered, acting confused. Anything to buy time… maybe if he could get the man talking he could stall. "Who are you? Why me? What do you want?"

"Me? Oh, I'm nobody- just an avid Edgar Allen Poe fan and dedicated student. Dyslexic teen hoping to become an author. You know, your average kid. But as for 'why you'… well, you'll do for my next murder. I can hear your heart. Drives me mad, you see? Sherlock Holmes' little protégé blogger/flat mate. HAVEYOUCOMETOSAVETHEDAY?" he screamed, letting loose a loud, maniac chuckle at the look of shock on John's face. "Well too late!" He took a cleaned scalpel from his pocket and poised it over his victim's ribcage, directly over the heart. John dared not breathe.

And then he screamed.

!

SHERLOCK WAS IN the police car, looking distantly out the window. He had gotten another text from the unknown number.

~The body is in the warehouse nearest Wales. Come and get your blogger. ~

John was dead. Lestrade had read the text over his shoulder and grabbed his wrist, pulling him into the patrol car.

"C'mon," he'd said to the catatonic detective. "Let's… Let's go find him before… before someone else." He finished his sentence quietly and Sherlock managed a nod.

!

JOHN WATSON HAD NEVER felt such pain. He wanted to pass out but forced himself to stay awake. His throat was raw from the screams that tore through it and his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. Lawrence laughed as he cut deeper into the chest of his victim, blood gushing over his hands. But then, a miracle happened.

The maniac glint left the madman's eyes and he staggered back in horror. "MUMMY! He screamed. NONONONONO! FAILED! Soldiers are filth, murderers! Am I a soldier? Can I be a soldier? Mother do you approve? Cabbage carts kill the cabbage. Smile big when the flash come, Larry!" he rambled on and on, wiping his blood soaked hands onto his jeans as he rocked back and forth. "Claire! My Claire! Don't go, don't go, don't go!"

And just like that, the madman was back. He picked up the scalpel and lunged towards John, his aim to kill instead of torture. John squeezed his eyes shut.

'' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' '' ''

SHERLOCK STARED AT THE scene in horror.

_John is alive. _

_John is alive. _

_John is alive. _

_John is alive. _

_John is alive. _

_John is going to die._

In slow motion, he saw the madman get up from the ground and pick up the surgical knife. He saw his blood-soaked best friend squeeze his eyes shut as the man lunged towards him.

And then he heard the gunshot. The madman crumpled to the ground with a thud and Sherlock spun to face Lestrade. The DI held his handgun up, the smoking tip pointed towards the murderer. It took all of Sherlock's considerable willpower not to hug the policeman. But other things took priority. He ran into the warehouse, drawing a sleek pocket knife from his coat and flicking it open when he reached his flat mate, cutting the rope that bound John's wrists together and catching the unsteady ex-soldier. John managed a weak grin.

"Was beginning to think you weren't coming, Sherly." He muttered into Sherlock's ear. Lestrade approached just as John collapsed into a dead faint and helped Sherlock catch him before he hit the ground. Together the two carried the limp form to the prop bed in the corner and laid john on the surprisingly springy mattress. Sherlock took off his jumper and began applying pressure to the wound in his flat mate's chest. Greg looked around nervously.

"I'll go get the emergency medical kit from the car and radio an ambulance." He dashed off, leaving John in his best friend's care. When Lestrade returned, he heard talking. He paused around the corner, listening. Apparently John had regained consciousness.

"…could have lost you, John! Why did you not see that he was a killer!?"

"Sherlock… he seemed… perfectly normal to me… if a bit enthusiastic… I think… he had MPD." John's words were sparse and labored. Lestrade had to stain to hear him.

"…John. I thought…" to Greg's utter astonishment, he heard Sherlock's voice crack. "I thought you were dead!" the next words come out muffled, as if Sherlock had buried his face into John's neck.

"Shhh, Sherlock. I'm… fine." Lestrade heard a muffled chuckle and Sherlock's now un-muffled voice.

"John… you're gushing blood." His words reminded Lestrade of the gauze and bottle of water he held in his hands and he decided to enter the "room". Sherlock and John turned their heads towards him and the two uninjured men began their rudimentary first aid. It wasn't long after they'd finished that they heard the sirens of an ambulance and all breathed a sigh nor relief.


	3. Chapter 3

Story: The Tell Tale Signs

Rating: M for explicit language and mature sex scenes (graphic)

Pairings: Johnlock, brief John/Moriarty/Sherlock threesome scene

Author: Alithe Serafina Cambre and RJK

Intended Length: 1-3 chapters, 5,000- 10,000 words

Chapter Three

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JOHN WAS RELEASED FROM St. Bart's Hospital a week and a half later. His wound was scabbed over nicely and he had to fight the urge to itch it. He still covered it in gauze bandages an ointment every day after his shower. Other than that, it seemed life had returned to normal.

Until Sherlock got a new case: a serial killer who targeted blonde women wearing aqua blue. He would be gone for most of the day and not tell John where he was. Lestrade was the one that told him about the case, not Sherlock. When he asked Sherlock about it, the detective grew defensive.

"Don't worry about it, John. It's a simple case. I will have solved it by tomorrow." And John accepted that answer… until two days later. Sherlock still had not solved the case.

"Sherlock, you've got to let me help you! I am a doctor; maybe a fresh pair of eyes will do the case some good!"

"Don't be silly John! As if I would have missed something." He wouldn't look at his friend though, and left before John could argue some more.

John called Lestrade and had him bring over the case files and crime scene photos. He pointed out that the victims' hair were always dark blonde and not light blonde and they were all found with their eyes open. "Every detail matters," he said. Lestrade relayed this to Sherlock.

The case was solved the next day. John waited for Sherlock in the kitchen when he returned home an hour later.

Sherlock, you have to talk to me!" he yelled when the detective tried to evade him. "What is going on? Why won't you let me help you?"

"BECAUSE! John, I…" Sherlock had spun around so fast John hadn't seen it. But he did see the tears gathering in his flat mates eyes. "Mycroft informed me that I love you. Normally, I would have ignored him… You think love is a mystery to me… until recently it was. I almost lost you, John! I thought you were DEAD!" he growled. John gaped at him in silence.

"You… you're afraid of losing me? You… love me?" John tried to piece it all together in his mind and failed miserably.

"John… when I thought you were dead… I was planning my own death. Lestrade had to drag me into the police car. As we drove I imagined my own death a thousand times. I told you before… I'd be lost without my blogger." He managed a half smile and continued. "Emotions… John, until you, I was certain I didn't feel things like others do. I assumed my endorphins and lymphatic system was dulled before birth or some such rot. I was… wrong. What I feel for you… it hurts. And it's wonderful." John gasped a breath and stared, his thoughts running a million miles an hour.

_He… loves me? What? Do I love him?_

He thought back to the time- had it only been two and a half weeks ago?- that he had watched Sherlock whilst he was in his mind palace just before he'd realized the connection between the murder and Edgar Allen Poe. He had been subconsciously admiring his flat mate. How regal he looked. How… sexy.

_Okay, so I'm physically attracted to him. But… do I love him?_

He thought harder. The more he thought, the more he remembered. Every touch, every smile, every case, every thrill…

_Bloody hell. I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes._

John became aware that he had been staring at Sherlock for a long time. His flat mate had finally met his eyes with an embarrassed look and as the silence went on it morphed into the most heartbreaking look of sadness that John had ever seen.

"I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable. I'll pack and leave you the next three months' rent. Goodbye, John." And as Sherlock stepped away, John grabbed his wrist. He pulled the surprised detective into his arms ad stood onto his tiptoes, crashing his lips to Sherlock's.

For thirty seconds, it was like kissing a marble statue. But then Sherlock began to kiss back. And John's mind exploded with sensations. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe… and it was wonderful. He pulled away for oxygen and stared up at his… boyfriend?

"I love you too, you annoying git. Don't ever doubt that." Sherlock smiled widely and swooped down to kiss the shorter man once more. Their hasty passion from the first kiss melted into something slower, more passionate, and more sexual. The feeling was not unlike that of an orgasm that was slowly building, burning in your gut and making your heart beat a little bit faster. John pulled away with dilated pupils and a predatory grin.

"To the bedroom?"

"Absolutely."

JOHN GROANED LOUDLY and Sherlock chuckled. As soon as they had entered the bedroom, the taller man had taken control. He'd shed his shirt and pants and divested John of his as well, leaving both of them in their boxers. He was a virgin, yes, but he'd found lots of- ahem- research online and was fairly certain he'd be able to do this right. He kissed the shorter man feverishly before trailing his mouth lower, placing a soft kiss on the bandage on John's chest and a love bite on his nipple before going even lower.

He tugged his lover's boxers down to his ankles and then off, throwing them across the room. John looked at him with lidded eyes and Sherlock gave him a saucy grin before giving John's cock an assessing glance.

"Very nice, John," he praised in a voice that should have had a warning sign attached to it. "So thick…" he breathed as he bent over the rock hard penis and gave the round, mushroom top head a lick, moaning at the salty taste. John echoed his moan and thrust is hips up, almost smacking Sherlock in the face. Sherlock frowned and pinned the shorter man's hips to the bed with one of his hands before grasping the ex-soldier in his free hand and pumping him firmly. John near-screamed in pleasure and Sherlock's frown turned into a pleased smile. He leaned down and took the head into his mouth, careful of his teeth. John bucked wildly and Sherlock held his hips down as he bobbed his head up and down the shaft at his own pace, concentrating on relaxing his throat and taking the doctor deeper each time. John buried his hands in Sherlock's curls and tugged him off, pulling him up to his mouth. They kissed feverishly and John pulled away for air, admiring Sherlock's bruised mouth.

"John… please," a pained look came over Sherlock's features as he bucked his boxer covered hips into his lover's, their erections separated only by the thin wall of fabric.

"Fuck me, Sherlock. Lube's in the drawer." He jerked his head towards the bedside table. Sherlock reached over and grabbed the lube and a condom.

"No!" John flipped the condom across the room. "I want to feel you…" Sherlock growled and bent down to kiss John, flicking the bottle of lube open with one hand while the other pushed down his own boxers. Sherlock stood to remove his boxers fully and John spread his legs for him to return. He knelt between them and lubed up three fingers. Slowly, he sank his middle finger into John's arse, holding down the doctor's bucking hips with his free hand and bent over so that he could lick his testicles at the same time. He crooked his finger up and John cried out as Sherlock hit his prostate.

Three minutes later, all three fingers were pumping in and out of the blonde. "Sherlock! I need your cock! Please!" Sherlock withdrew his fingers and wordlessly coated his seven and a half inch long penis with lube. Whereas John was six inches and thick, Sherlock was long and relatively skinny, with a slight upward bend to his cock. John admired it briefly as it glistened with lube but then Sherlock crawled over him, using one hand to prop himself up and the other to guide his cock.

"Relax," he rumbled in his sex voice. John relaxed and Sherlock bent down to give him a surprisingly gentle kiss. John moaned into Sherlock's mouth as he felt every inch of the younger man slide into him. It burned with pain but felt so good. He felt Sherlock's balls slap his rectum ad moaned again. Sherlock growled and drew back.

"John… you're… so tight…" he panted.

"Fuck me, Sherlock. I don't want to be able to walk tomorrow." He smiled teasingly and gasped as Sherlock began to withdraw, the friction delicious and addicting. Soon the detective was pounding into John's virgin arse. Not that John had any protests. Sherlock reached a still lubed hand down and grasped John's cock, never breaking rhythm. John cried out over and over as Sherlock stroked both the head of his cock and his prostate. Sherlock responded with breathy groans and pants, amazed at how _tight_ John was.

John came first, spurting all over Sherlock's hand and their chests. Sherlock howled as John's arse clamped down onto his prick and gave three erratic thrusts before painting John's prostate with hot seamen. John shuddered at the sensation, pulling the dazed detective in for a long kiss. When they broke apart, Sherlock made as if to pull out of John but the doctor hooked his ankles on the small of the dark haired man's back, holding him there.

"Leave it. I'm already half-hard again, Might as well be ready for next time." He said with a cheeky grin. Sherlock felt a twitch of arousal in his own cock at these words and smiled back in silent agreement, leaning down to kiss John's neck until they'd recovered enough for round two.

The fact that he left a large possessive claim mark that Lestrade (and the whole bloody yard) saw the next day was certainly not his intent.


	4. A Simple Clarification

JUST A CLARIFICATION!

I had a lovely guest review wondering why I referenced Poe into the "Great English Literature" category because Poe was an American author. I would like to answer this publicly just in case anyone else was wondering.

It was not my intent to make the class seem like an England-based literature class and I was, in fact, referring to the word "English" as in the language and not the country.

Just clearing that up, thank you!


End file.
